Closed Mouths Gather No Feet
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Washington makes an observation, and suffers the repercussions of bringing it to everyone's attention.


All credit (blame) for this story goes to Sam, who one night made the astute observation, "Maine is a fucking sexy beefcake. Look at dem curves." And then, just to bang one more nail into our coffin, she added, "I wonder if Wash ever noticed." Since, y'know, Wash is probably really detailed oriented. And he can't keep his trap shut.

You can see where this went.

Shannon McCormick, if you ever read this story then _God damn it _I am so sorry that I ever let my sister convince me to write this.

**Disclaimer:** Not a Wash/Maine story. Just bromance, baby.

* * *

**Chapter One: Gurl Lookit Dat Body**

If asked about it later, Washington would deny it was his fault.

In fact, when Connie did ask about it later, he blamed York.

It was mid-afternoon when training finally concluded and Washington—with a steady limp in his left foot and an acute tingling in his arm like fucking ants were marching across his bones—all but dragged himself into the locker room. York and Maine were quick to follow, just as eager to hit the showers before someone else came along and used the hot water. Wyoming and North arrived last, the latter needing to be chiseled out of the hardened paint and the former being stuck with the task by virtue of the other three Agents making a run for it.

(They might've been comrades and brothers-in-arms and all, but none of them were above throwing each other under the bus. Especially if the bus wore glasses and had a goatee and was named Leonard Church.)

"You sure it's in your locker and not your room?" York was hovering at North's elbow, arms crossed as he leaned against the cold metal.

"I already told you"—the blonde's mellow voice was partially muffled with his face half-buried in his locker, elbows-deep as he shifted belongings around—"I searched my quarters. It's not in there. And before you ask, I already asked South if she had it, and she said no."

"Figures." The locksmith sighed before running a hand through unkempt brown hair, a practiced maneuver. Again he peered over his friend's shoulders, his curious expression taking on a hint of apprehension. "And you're_ sure_ you didn't lend it to another soldier and forgot…?"

"No, York, I told you I—_ow!_" The other man made the mistake of trying to lift his head and caught it on the top of the locker with a cringe-worthy _bang_. With an uncharacteristic swear North withdrew and straightened, a hand now rubbing the newly-acquired bruise he could already feel blossoming across his scalp. Pale blue eyes refocused on York as he turned around, an eyebrow half-raised in question. "Why do you need it back all of the sudden?"

A shrug, as the infiltration specialist resumed his casual pose against the locker, his nonchalance a bit too forced. "Oh, you know. For things."

"Things."

"Important things," York clarified brightly.

"I don't even want to know," sighed North.

A disarming grin stretched across York's face, followed by a playful backslap. He didn't notice North wince from the additional pain that the gesture only added onto, what with the head-slam and lockdown paint-induced stiffness. "Good call, man. And the sooner it's out of your hands and into mine, the less likely someone will trace it back to you."

"_Trace it back_—? You know what? No. You're absolutely right." He'd been playing the game for too long now to not have gotten savvy where his teammates (read: York) were concerned. Ignorance was sometimes bliss.

That unfortunately still left him with one dilemma.

"I could have sworn it was in here…" The confused Agent absently rubbed the back of his skull as he stared into the space. "Huh. Maybe South did—" Suddenly his expression lit up. "No, wait, I know where it is."

And to York's surprise his friend beelined past his own locker and started inputting the combo for his sister's.

"Hey, North? What are you—?" The question died on his lips when North triumphantly popped open the locker, reached in, and held out the elusive razor. Nonplussed, he blinked as the tiny device was dropped into his expectant palms.

"There you are. One electric razor, to do…whatever the hell you have planned to do with it."

"Yeah, uh, thanks." York continued to stare down at the razor a heartbeat longer before glancing up to meet the sharpshooter's gaze. "So why was it in her locker?"

"I must have put it in there by accident," North explained. "We know each other's combos. Sometimes if her locker is open I'll just throw my things in there because it's convenient. She does the same thing with mine. Guess we're just so used to sharing space that it doesn't really occur to us."

"Uh-huh." Bemusement bled out into relief, and York pocketed the razor, a flash of mischievous intent darkening his face.

Against his better judgment North decided to prod, at the same time rummaging through South's locker with a disappointed frown at how cluttered and trashed it was. They may have been fraternal twins, but they sure as hell didn't act like it. "I'm going to assume that razor isn't intended for shaving-related purposes."

"You'd assume correctly," York chirped.

"Right." An exasperated sigh left North as he plucked what suspiciously looked like an apple core off of an old report. Brow furrowing—when was the last time his sister actually bothered to clean in here?—he began to dig through, setting aside things that needed to go. Preferably in a landfill, but in space you had to make do with what was available, so the trash can it was. "Is this something that's against protocol? Because if you're intending on—"

"So whose underwear are these, anyway?"

That was the second time today North caught his head on the locker.

Biting his tongue to stop himself from uttering every profanity he knew, this time North extracted himself from the locker's interior to fix York with the most unamused stare he could muster.

With a world-breaking shit eater's grin on his face, York leaned into the locker, twirling a thong around his index finger by the cuff. The infiltration specialist looked too amused for his own good, eyes too bright and posture too lax. "How come you didn't say you were seeing someone? We would have congratulated you." He tilted his head, smile growing by leaps and bounds. "Or are these a reminder from a one-time deal?"

"First of all, I'm not seeing anyone." North only needed to glance up once, before he returned to his original task of purging his sister's locker. "Secondly, those are South's."

York all but flailed windmill-style as he flung the offending clothes back into the hellish crypt from which they came. Followed by a breathy exclamation as he slammed the locker shut.

One aisle over Wyoming's husky laughter could be heard as he guffawed.

"Serves you right," North scolded, without sincerity.

York, meanwhile, was having none of it; dusting off his t-shirt in mock affront with the most realistic, disgruntled Pop-Eye impersonation North had ever seen. "_Thanks_," he grumbled. "Could have said something."

"I did." This time North poked his head out long enough to shoot the other Freelancer a good humored look. "_After_ you started going through my things."

"If South's knickers are in your locker," Wyoming called, "then does that mean we're going to find your jockstraps in hers?"

Rather than respond North rolled his eyes and resumed cleaning out South's locker, leaving York to complain halfheartedly under his breath. "Great. I'm contaminated. Now I'm going to have to wash my hands with bleach."

Speaking of Wash… Weird how quiet his friend was being. If Wyoming was capitalizing on his mockery, then Washington should have been _spearheading_ that particular bandwagon. For the first time York turned toward the other end of the aisle, curious as to see what could be so much more fascinating.

And as quickly as his smirk fled it came crawling back like an abused spouse.

Washington, still shirtless and hair dripping wet from his shower, was sitting on one of the benches.

Staring fixedly at Maine.

The burly Freelancer had yet to notice the attention and was standing in front of his own locker, searching for his shirt more than likely. It didn't escape York's notice that his friend's gaze was practically stuck, nailed, and riveted to Maine's hips, waist, and shoulders, eyes trailing over the sleek sheen of skin and cords of toned muscle.

Well. That was certainly new.

It went without saying that the opportunity to sacrifice someone else's pride on the altar in place of his own was too tempting, so York happily strolled over until he stood directly behind Wash.

Leaning in, he whispered into his friend's ear, "Mind saving the bedroom eyes for later?"

As expected Washington all but jumped out of his skin and whirled eyes widened before he settled on looking just plain flustered. "Son of a bitch, York. Don't _do_ that." The implication finally manage to bypass his delayed reaction, and Wash flushed pink to the tip of his ears. "And I wasn't doing, well, _that_."

"Oh? 'Cause that's not how it looked from where I was standing." York couldn't help the wolfish grin at the other man's expense. "I never figured you rolled that way."

"I don't! I'm not," protested Wash, a little too quickly. He narrowed his eyes. "I was just…thinking."

"Thinking."

"Yeah."

"While staring at Maine. Without his shirt on."

For a wild moment Washington stole a look at Maine, on the off-chance their teammate heard. Fortunately the other Freelancer was preoccupied with rifling through the contents of his locker to pay them any heed. In an annoyed undertone he hissed, "Would you quit making it sound like a euphemism for sex?"

York held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not the one undressing Maine with my eyes," he pointed out, equally as quiet.

"I _wasn't_—" Abruptly he cut himself. A considerate look crossed his features. "You know what? You can help me with something."

And_ that_ was York's cue to bail from that particular ship before it sprang any more leaks. "I'm not helping you get into his pants, if that's what it is. Although I do agree with you, you could certainly use the help."

Wash's face, if possible, flushed a deeper shade of red. "No, asshole," he snapped quietly, huffily. "I have a question."

"I'm pretty sure I don't want to know."

"It's nothing gross!"

Oh, York had no doubt about that. Still, his curiosity got the better of him. Not exactly a good trait to have, as far as self-preservation was concerned, but screw it. Best friend-baiting had to have its perks somewhere. "All right," the locksmith allowed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll bite. What do you want?"

A second of hesitation, then: "What's the definition of curvy?"

"'Curvy'?" echoed York, caught somewhat off-guard by such a left field question. "Isn't that pretty self-explanatory?"

"I mean in a non-geometric context." When York continued to stare uncomprehendingly, Wash reluctantly elaborated. "You know, like when applied to people."

This time it was _York_ whose gaze shifted to the half-naked Agent ten feet away, before darting back to a rather uncomfortable-looking Wash. "Oh, God." Soft, incredulous laughter managed to slip its way past the fingers now sliding over the bridge of his nose and mouth. From underneath the facepalm he said, "You _are_ going to make me regret this, aren't you? _No_. I want _no part_ in your sick fantasies."

"Would you just give me the definition!" the blonde snapped, just a tad more haughtily and a helluva lot more loudly than intended.

"Definition_s_," North suddenly chipped in.

Like a deer in headlights Washington froze. In silent deliberation he turned to the other man and regarded him cautiously, as if trying to gauge just how much of their conversation—if you could even call it that—he'd heard. Deciding it was safe, tentatively he asked, "What?"

"Definitions. As in plural." Evidently satisfied with the state of South's locker (for now), North closed and relocked it. Turning to face the pair, he explained, "In that context there are two definitions."

"Which are…?" Washington prompted.

Head tipped to the side in thought, York mused, "Well, the first one is used as a euphemism for 'fat' or 'chubby.' It works scary well as a marketing ploy for companies trying to force certain mindsets on gullible teenage girls with low self-esteem."

Wash pulled a face. "Yeah, uh, not quite what I was going for. What's the other?"

A finger tapped at his chin as North mulled that request over. "The other is used to define an attractive, healthy figure. Normally an hourglass shape with broad shoulders."

"Uh-huh." There was a_ processing_ sort of gleam in Wash's gray eyes as he absorbed that piece of information. Lightly chewing his bottom lip, he inquired, "And hypothetically speaking, what would you say are the perfect measurements for someone who fits that description?"

"You mean the fat teenage girl one, or the Victoria's Secret supermodel one?" teased York.

"The _second one_," Washington muttered.

To their surprise it was _Wyoming_ who answered from the adjacent aisle: "Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six."

Christ, was the entire world eavesdropping?

When none of the Agents said anything—York too busy trying not to snicker at Wash's mortified expression and North blinking in surprise—Wyoming poked his head into their aisle. Towel wrapped around his dark hair, he was still wringing water out of it. He pursed his lips at the trio when the silence began to drag out. "…What? Am I not allowed to have standards?"

"I thought British men liked their women unshaven and unconcerned with their looks?" Mild contempt met York's cheekiness as Wyoming briefly narrowed his eyes at him.

"Uneducated twat." The insult sounded halfhearted and distracted, as if he didn't have the energy to feel slighted by the cultural jab. Instead, he returned to drying off his hair. "That's a stereotype. That's like saying all Americans like their women with artificial tans, Botox, and no brain cells."

"I can see why you'd say that," North gave an almost self-depreciating chuckle.

"And who asked you anyway, Red Coat?" Back to the old banter, because there was nothing like the tried-and-true methods for getting a rise out of Wyoming. "Why don't you go back to combing that caterpillar on your face?"

"At least I have the capacity to grow facial hair," Wyoming chided. The implication wasn't lost on York; once, he'd tried to grow a beard for the sake of simply proving he could to the smug bastard. The result was a "deformed-looking" (Wash's words, not his) scruffy patch that lasted roughly a month, before Carolina threatened to shave it off in his sleep if he didn't get rid of it.

"And come now, it was hardly like you were trying to keep this conversation private." As suddenly as if a spotlight were shined upon him, Wash squirmed a little when Wyoming's keen, intelligent gaze turned to him. "Besides, this intrigues me. Why all the questions, Wash? Someone catch your fancy?"

"For the last time, _no_." Crossing his arms over his bare chest, Washington insisted, "I was just thinking."

The Brit's smile curled in amusement. "Careful you don't think too hard, lad. You might hurt yourself."

For a second Wash looked as if he were on the brink of speech, when his entire stance shifted. Like a guppy with its mouth open the blonde wordlessly stood there, the gears in his head all but visibly turning as he deliberated over his reply. Mind clearly made up he gradually turned in Maine's direction. Then, with what had to be one of the single greatest acts of noose-tying York had ever seen, Washington verbally hung himself: "…You know, I never really noticed it before, but you're really curvy, Maine."

(Much later, when Wash _did_ try to blame him, York made sure to point out that he hadn't made him open his mouth.)

Said Freelancer had been in the middle of putting on deodorant when he froze. Up until then Maine had done an impressive job of ignoring his comrades, but even he couldn't pretend to have not heard that. Very, very slowly the massive man turned around, all six-foot-five-inches of him looking down (a long way down) at Wash.

"So you're either calling him a woman or a fat bastard. Is that right?" The amused quirk of Wyoming's lips made Wash very certain he would regret making his observation. York's kid-in-a-candy-shop look made him _absolutely_ certain there would be blackmail for this, and by God would there be a lot of it. North, to his credit, had the decency to look politely confused.

"No!" he snapped, flinching at how defensive he sounded. No, he definitely did not want them getting the wrong idea. "Look, I—it's just, I dunno, his shape is really curvy."

Wyoming cocked his head. "And you thought to voice this because…?"

Maine continued to stare.

"Hey, Wash?" North ventured. "Maybe this is a conversation you should be having with just Maine…alone. In private."

"And with lube!" York jumped in.

"That's not it!" Washington insisted, his cheeks now sporting a_ magnificent_ shade of magenta. "I'm not gay!"

"Well don't go leading on the poor chap with false impressions, you might get his hopes up," Wyoming chortled. "And how _are_ you taking all of this, Maine, seeing as Wash is apparently fixated on your body?"

For once Maine seemed genuinely speechless as opposed to just voluntarily mute. It didn't help that his expression was completely unreadable.

"I—am—not," the blonde all but seethed. His attempt at composure fell a little short as Washington said, "It's just that, I noticed he has really defined features. He's got more hip and bust than all of the female Freelancers. Seriously, he's _built_."

"With every word out of your mouth this conversation keeps descending to new levels of awkward." Wash made a mental note to get new friends as York—fucking vulture he was—swooped in for an easy picking. "You proud of yourself?"

"Look, I just have a good eye for detail! It's not like I'm intentionally doing this!"It wasn't_ his_ fault that Maine was almost as obsessed as Carolina when it came to maintaining physical fitness; it wasn't _his_ fault that he was cripplingly detail-oriented.

North arched an eyebrow. "So your eyes were wandering of their own accord?"

"I believe the politically correct term is 'amblyopia,'" Wyoming said.

"What?" It took a few seconds to ransack his brain for the exact meaning, but when it hit him _boy_ did it hit him. "No! I just like the shape—"

"You like _Maine's_ shape?" interrupted York.

Before, the massive Agent had been regarding the entire affair with the same nonchalance one might reserve for the elephant in the room. But then Maine crossed his arms over his chest. To the untrained eye it might have appeared par for the course, casual indifference, if it weren't for the reinforced grip of his arms and the discomfort beginning to creep across his face.

Just a tad desperate now, Washington bleated, "I meant the shape _in general_. Not his shape!"

"But they're the same thing," North reasoned.

"I mean, I like the numbers," Washington backpedaled. "The numbers are sexy! Not Maine!"

Maine shot him an incredulous, mildly insulted look.

Only then did he realize what he'd said, and he stammered, nerves all kinds of jacked up, "I mean, not that you're _not_ sexy! 'Cause you definitely are. Just not to me! I mean—"

"This," York marveled, "has to be the worst attempt at flirting I've ever seen."

Wyoming actually snorted under his breath. "I find that unlikely, given your own attempts with Carolina."

"Hey, it's not my fault she's oblivious."

"You think her oblivious?" Wyoming _tsk_ed as he finished drying off his hair and draped the towel over his left shoulder. "Oh, she'll love to hear that one."

"Wash? Maybe you should stop while you're ahead," North advised. He still looked like he was torn between amusement and concern.

"Look—" He was really getting tired of saying that. "All I'm saying is that it would be a great shape…for a woman."

"Are you implying that you wish Maine was a woman?" Wyoming asked, grinning.

"Worse, I think he's implying he'd_ bang_ Maine if he was a woman," the locksmith laughed.

The Brit clapped his hands together in mock enthusiasm. "So you _are _calling him a woman! Do you suppose this makes this conversation any less uncomfortable?"

"No." North shook his head. "Definitely no."

"Hey, Wash." At this point Wash was pretty certain he was blushing a shade of red that would've made a tomato proud. The heat beneath his skin only intensified when York, beaming like a jack-o-lantern with a TNT candlestick, said, "Why don't you ask Maine to give us a little spin so he can show off all of his _curve_s."

At least this time Washington wasn't the only one giving York a dirty look. Evidently, Maine's tolerance levels were beginning to hit their peak. What that meant for him, he wasn't sure he wanted to find out, since the goliath man was continuing to regard him with a mixture of discomfort and incredulity.

Clearly he wasn't going to be walking away from this with his pride intact. Maybe there was still hope he could walk away with his _face_ intact.

"Would you quit putting words in my mouth?" Wash half-snapped, half-begged.

"I'm sure that's not the only think you'd like to put in your mouth."

"Shove it up your ass, York."

"Don't you mean _your_ ass?" Wyoming chimed in.

"I'm not into him!" Extra emphasis on _not_. Because clearly they weren't getting it. "I was just making an observation!"

North and York swapped looks. "Sure," the sharpshooter said, "if that's what you want to call it."

Or they were just really fucking assholes.

"Fine," the blonde seethed. "Let me rephrase, then."

York leaned back into one of the lockers and hooked his arms behind his head. "Here we go."

"The shape, in general, would look great on a woman. Not him."

"So are you saying that on Maine it just looks like complete shit?" York grinned.

"Or that it makes him look feminine?" Wyoming tacked on slyly.

Like a popped balloon Wash deflated. "…I hate all of you."

The Brit's smirk glowed with ten thousand watts of evil, dark eyes alight with glee at Washington's expense. "Truly, lad," he scoffed, "you must share your 'observations' more often."

"You're all dicks, you know that?" He made sure to look directly at York as he said that.

The infiltration specialist responded with a Cheshire grin. "Hey, it's not our fault you keep giving us ammo."

"Seriously"—Washington switched his gaze to North and Wyoming—"what kinds of friends are you?"

The Brit opened his mouth, a witty quip on the tip of his tongue, when his gaze abruptly turned to look over Wash's shoulders rather than directly at him. He smirked. "The kind that aren't about to leave a crater where your face is."

"What—?" Alarmed, Wash whirled around, just in time to see Maine stepping over the bench and slowly stalking toward him.

Even more unnerving than the three sets of eyes watching him was the aura of palpable calm enshrouding Maine, as the muscular Agent backed Washington into the row of lockers. Instinctively he tensed, bracing for a fist and feeling his blood pressure skyrocket when the other man simply kept walking toward him—well into his personal space. Trepidation was replaced with confusion, then fear, as Maine lifted both arms and palmed the cold steel on either side of his head, boxing him in.

It gave him a _very_ up-close view of Maine's abs.

Wash silently swallowed, not sure what to make of his friend's actions and frankly too piss-terrified to ask.

The last thing the gray Freelancer had expected to see was a predatory smirk on Maine's face. He dipped his head down, craning his neck to bring them eye-level, his lips curling in wicked amusement when Washington _squirmed_. Suddenly, Wash had a new appreciation for what an insect must feel under a microscope.

In his rough, grating voice, Maine rumbled, "Still think it's sexy?"

"_No_," Wash squeaked.

"You sure?"

"_Positive!_"

"Thought so." The much larger Freelancer's eyes dipped down, taking his time in letting his gaze rove over Wash's shirtless torso. The parody in the action wasn't lost on their audience, and Wash was sure he heard York stifle a snicker.

"_Nice curves_," Maine purred into Wash's face, before mercifully withdrawing. The second he stepped back Washington exhaled a shaky breath. Apparently Maine did have a sense of humor—for all of South's claims that he kept it in a jar next to his cot—and was chuckling lowly, rattily, but still chuckling as he grabbed his shirt from his locker, closed it, and proceeded to leave the room.

As soon as his footsteps retreated from hearing York began to loudly guffaw, while Wyoming merrily cackled. At least North was kind enough to give his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder while Wash continued to slump against the locker and try not to have a heart attack. Even if he was still laughing while doing so.

* * *

While our liberal interpretation of Maine is pretty funny in that he fucks with the canon, we'd be willing to bet that he had a sadistic sense of humor. He probably sharpened his combat knife with his funny bone.

Expect this monstrosity to have a part two, in which Maine continues to milk Wash's faux pas for everything he's worth.


End file.
